


The Fate of Time

by the_writer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Aging, Bittersweet, Gen, Good Dumbledore, Guilt, Immortal Jack, Triwizard Tournament, Well-Meaning Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writer/pseuds/the_writer
Summary: Jack ponders the effect of time on his good friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jack met Dumbledore when he was young, and they have been friends ever since.

Constant chatter filled the halls as voices became tumbled and warbled, the echoes of laughter tripping up the stairs as frost bitten feet hung lazily over an arm of an odd recliner made of mismatched carpet swatches. Pressed cobblestone flooring sparkled in the evening setting sun as cold frost skipped across the floor. Large paned windows set the room on fire as children below Jack’s feet rushed to their appropriate places for the opening feast, as sunlight peered through glass jars and crystal flasks, forming rainbows along the walls, crawling the spines of old books and moving pictures. Jack swung his feet in annoyance, crossing his legs while watching red and brown leaves fall in the autumn wind. Jack had an entire season to prepare for, he had to frost the dew on the morning grass and ice the roofs of houses and bring frigid winds, not to spend time with humans who had outgrown their belief like a pair of old shoes. 

The only wooden door that lead into the room opened with a quiet whine, hungry for oil, as man hobbled into the room, muttering under his breath quickly as his brow remained furrowed, brown eyes darkened with worry and stress as his long beard trailed behind him like a whirlwind of snow, his long hair flying behind him as he hurried about, his old legs carrying him about with a finesse that surprised Jack. Crossing his legs once more, Jack spoke in the midst of the man’s rambling. 

“Albus.”

The elder straightened, the old man’s back creaking as he turned his attention to the spirit, his wrinkled face becoming serious yet gentle, looking more like a kind grandfather rather than a frantic widower, his grey hair frazzled and botched, his robes wrinkled and smothered in a thin sheen of frost. The man before him was familiar, more familiar than Jack usually wanted to admit, as the years always seemed to pass by, dragging his old friend closer and closer the reaper’s own skeletal hand. 

“Jackson,” Dumbledore replied, his voice fond, “I didn’t expect you to arrive so soon.”

Jack hummed in agreement, watching his friend flitter around the room in controlled movements, his gnarled hands sifting through yellowed papers and holding several potions to the autumn light shifting through the window, the setting sun blazing through the room. 

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Jack smirked, hanging off the chair, watching the headmaster totter about upside down. 

“Not now, Jackson,” Dumbledore sighed, “Our friend Mr. Potter has been drawn into the Triwizard Tournament.”

“And...that’s bad…?” Jack inquired, doodling small designs of frost onto the tiled floor beneath his head. 

Jack never truly understood wizarding culture, their duels and their sports. How they often stuck to their form of corrupted government like a lifeline while their world slowly collapsed, focusing on the trials of werewolves and the uses of fungi. But, Jack was fairly certain he knew what the tournament was about, more or less. 

“He’s fourteen, Jack.” Dumbledore steeled, changing the subject as he turned on his heel, standing over the spirit, smiling fondly. “How has our search been going?”

Jack rolled his eyes, taking to the air, folding his legs underneath himself, “I’ve found Voldemort's followers have been on the move, heading north.”

“Towards the school?”

“More like circling around it, avoiding it.” Jack supplied, touching the stone floor with delicate toes, taking a long look outside the open window. 

Dumbledore sighed once more, rubbing his temples as he rested his crescent moon glasses on the table, taking a seat in the warm plush seat Jack had once occupied, sinking into the fabric of mismatched carpet watches and quilting samples. He used to look so young, Jack pondered, imagining the wrinkles and age old scars of his battling days disappearing into the old man’s skin, his white hair which rivaled Jack’s fade into short brown locks and dark lashes, his age old smile returning with the same vigor Jack had met him with, only to be taken by father time himself. Jack winced at the thought of reaper coming for his dear old friend, Albus already far past the average human life expectancy.

“You’re aging, Albus.” Jack blurted, a twinge of regret tainting his voice, biting his tongue after his words slithered past his lips. 

Dumbledore chuckled, unfazed by the nature of the question, “And you’re young, Jack. Not everyone can be frozen in time, my dear friend.”

Jack recoiled, watched the old man sink further into the misshapen recliner, his robes now damp and gave off the tell-tale smell of wet velvet, and while Jack did wonder how the frost had formed before Dumbledore had entered the chamber, he didn’t dwell on it, focusing more on creaking shoulders and thin twig like arms. He was delicate now, made of glass and yet holding the elder wand close to his side. Jack rubbed a hand over his face, his blue eyes watching as Dumbledore dragged himself from his comfort, heading to the bookshelves, scanning the titles with muttering under his breath, no doubt setting back to work on the boy Jack had heard so much about. Perhaps he would meet the boy someday, but Jack doubted it would be soon. 

Opening the window with a loud squeak, Jack hopped to the sill, checking behind his shoulder before leaping into the wind, leaving unnoticed as he tumbled through the air, the sound of Hogwarts leaving his ears the wind took him home, a coil of guilt pulling at his undying heart, pulsing with cold blood and frozen veins, the pain of his friend’s own mortality pulling him deeper into the hollowed depths of shattered ice which the Moon dragged him from.


End file.
